


Achilles, Patroclus

by Infamous_society



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Achilles is fragile, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gay, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I love them too much, I really should be revising, M/M, Patrolcus is brave, Translation, Trojan War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 09:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14746413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infamous_society/pseuds/Infamous_society
Summary: Patroclus is braveAchilles is fragileTogether they are human





	Achilles, Patroclus

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Achille, Patroclo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14196501) by [The_infamous_wine_bottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_infamous_wine_bottle/pseuds/The_infamous_wine_bottle). 



> I translated this story from Italian because I felt that it was so good it needed to be in English so more people could read it!

> _Why, Patroclus, art thou bathed in tears, like a girl, a mere babe, that runneth by her mother's side and biddeth her take her up, and clutcheth at her gown, and hindereth her in her going, and tearfully looketh up at her, till the mother take her up?_

_**Homer - The Iliad, Book XVI, Lines VIII to XII** _

 

“Look at the sea, Achilles. It is powerful, it is strong, it is majestic.

Still it remains impassive before this slaughter.

Before the burning ships, in front of the blood of the fallen.

In front of heads separated from bodies.

The pungent smell of wounded flesh.

Before the horror of war.

Before the prayers of the man that, struck dead, one last time cries for his beloved wife, for his little child.

I see the man screaming in life, giving out his last breath and still screaming in death, his eyes empty, hands thrown open in pain.

 

Is it not true? Is the sea maybe not indifferent to all of this?

 

You don’t return to fight. You are like the sea.

But you are human Achilles. Son of a god, but human, human.

Not the sea, not a monster. Human.

Listen to my words.

If you, brave as you are, fall in battle, leave it to me to take your place.

Each wound, each loss, each of our deaths, piercing me like a lance through my chest. I can see myself with blood flowing from my chest. It kills me.

I cannot leave them alone. I beg you...give me your armour because I can pretend to be you, Achilles. They fear you, above all else.

I will trick them and the divine Achilles will escape, cowardice in place of his greatness.

Do not deny me your armour, if you have a heart, the salvation of at least one among the Greeks.

You are human Achilles. Please.”

Patroclus begged, crying hard and at the same time urging Achilles.

 

_Achilles could not return to fight. He had lost his honour on the day when Briseis left his tent._

The Achaean would pay for that terrible offence with many lives. Agamemnon would understand.

Achilles was not a simple soldier and if they believed that mercy toward the Greek comrades, who were destroyed by the war, would have been enough to push him into battle, then they were wrong.

They had not made Achilles mad.

 

If he had given Patroclus his weapons, he preferred that he used them.

It would have not been useful.

He knew it.

Achilles had not the heart of the Greeks.

They would die if he preferred.

And him with them.

 

But no.

 

_No, no. Achilles didn’t want that, in his heart, to agree with the request of his friend_. He did not have to give Patroclus his armour, for nothing in the world.

Not him, his friend for life, his companion in battle.

Not Patroclus.

Achilles was scared of Patroclus (who was in turn frightened of his enemies) choosing to continue to fight and to die in battle. Never.

The hero knew Patroclus’ soul was good and how much he hated to spread the blood of his enemy.

They had grown up together, he could understand it fully. Even if he could, Patroclus would not kill subdued enemies; he would rather have them imprisoned.

On the other hand, however, he was certain that he would have sided with his companions and not have fled, if the Trojans had defeated one of the Greeks. Patroclus would have wanted revenge.

 

Achilles could not risk leaving Patroclus to die in battle with his weapons, but on the other hand he did not want to return to fight.

 

For a long time Patroclus begged him, with tears streaming from his eyes.

A few hours of solitude that the morning allowed, the two friends spent them together.

Achilles was restless, pacing the tent; betraying himself by showing emotions.

Patroclus sat on a stool and contemplated the sight in front of him.

Maybe he thought, “ _What brings you, dear friend, to this state of anguish? I will be worthy of your armour, be sure, and I will return before the first light of the next dawn, victorious._ ”

 

Sighing. Achilles did not want to speak. He didn’t know what to say. On the contrary, he searched for the harp and held it close to his chest. Slowly he began to play. The hands of the divine warrior glided across the strings, jumping, brushing, running, caressing.

These hands did not seem like the ones that killed with a sword.

They were delicate, fragile. They trembled slightly.

 

Every note passed through Patroclus making him shiver.

A chain of shivers ran down his back.

It was a lament that dazed him, an all-consuming melody that hammered against his troubled heart. There were sweet words, feelings and love, Patroclus felt coming out of Achilles’ fingers.

This, had nothing to do with the proud, scornful, emotionless, brave Achilles - ready to kill a friend over a silly dispute. Were they, therefore, the same person?

Patroclus did not know, whilst Achilles continued to express what he could not say through the harp. 

It was sweet sounding. The song was marvellous and torturous for the young hero.

It seemed he was no longer able to breathe.

It seemed he was only able to cry.

 

More than music. He could understand. A sense of infinite sadness shrouded the tent.

A reflection of the will of the Fates.

Merciless.

The torturous Fates played the notes for Achilles, revealing a fragment of a cruel plan to the young Patroclus.

They would have won, but with pain.

 

All of these things together shocked Patroclus, his determination for a moment shrunk.

His eyes were hazy with tears, tears that streamed down his cheeks.

It could not end like this.

He seemed almost childlike buckling on the armour, which was wet with tears.

To be conscious of his own destiny was, above all else, the worst evil for a human.

 

Despairing music still fluttered through the air, when Achilles ceased to play. His noble features, very often lined with scorn, were marred with horror.

Once again Patroclus noticed that Achilles did not look like a warrior, he had no aspect to him of that of a warrior.

He was full of despair.

Grieving.

He never did it when he was a boy.

Patroclus approached his friend and slung an arm around his shoulder; a gesture of affection.

This would have not been enough to change the course of destiny.

He would have merely disrupted it for a moment.

The minutes in the night were long but not infinite.

Never infinite.

 

_Everything ends, whether you want it to or not._

_You can make a thousand efforts to save it, saving what you love, you can kill if you want._

_You can go mad, beg, ruin yourself, you can sacrifice yourself and all that you own._

_You can apologise._

_Apologise, truly apologise._

 

_I could not even do it this time. I promised I would do everything, everything_.

_I loved you, I would have tried a thousand times_.

_I loved you like anybody._

_Listen, I swear._

_I loved you, believe me, I loved you_.

_Things end you know._

 

Soon the first light of dawn flooded the Achaean camp and found two heroes still embracing each other, almost as if they wanted to record each other’s skin, and, in their minds a feeling that could have been ended underneath the scorching sun.

Achilles shook Patroclus gently and lifted him slowly.

It was worth trying.

For the last time.

 

 “Patroclus, listen to me. Go into battle, and believe me, just for one second. When the Trojans have escaped, please come back here. Do not throw yourself into the fray. Return here.”

 

Patroclus nodded weakly, then he looked for Achilles’ hand and squeezed it tightly.

He brought his hand to his mouth and, slowly, kissed it.

Almost imperceptible.

Contact that represented all the desperate sweetness of the world.

At the call of the Greek army, the hero loosened his fingers from Achilles’ and left the tent, without looking back.

The sun beat down on the camp and the earth burned, unaware of the destiny that would be accomplished.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
